Kathryn Gamble - Letter from Afghanistan: Trips into the city

Monday

Jun 28, 2010 at 3:15 AMJun 28, 2010 at 5:42 AM

I took pictures of everything that needed repair: thick mold growing on the walls, children sleeping in thin blankets with no mattresses, the leaking septic system, a kitchen that was nothing more than a giant pot for cooking, and gas running through PVC pipes no less. There was a loom in the girl's housing, but no teacher. So it sat unused. The boys tried to make shoes as water from the ceiling poured onto them.

By Kathryn Gamble

Editor's note: Kathryn Gamble, of Dover, is in Afghanistan managing the local Commander's Emergency Response Program. Her columns on her time overseas are appearing on Mondays in Foster's Daily Democrat. She graduated valedictorian from Portsmouth Christian Academy in 2002. In 2006, she earned a bachelor's of science in psychology, and in 2007, earned a master's in communication studies. She can be reached at kathrynbgamble@mail.com.

Recently I visited a juvenile detention center. Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw there.

I took pictures of everything that needed repair: thick mold growing on the walls, children sleeping in thin blankets with no mattresses, the leaking septic system, a kitchen that was nothing more than a giant pot for cooking, and gas running through PVC pipes no less. There was a loom in the girl's housing, but no teacher. So it sat unused. The boys tried to make shoes as water from the ceiling poured onto them.

The hardest to see was a young mother huddled in a corner with her newborn. She had been married off at the age of 14 to a man in his 60s. You could see the scarring and deformation on her face and arms from his abuse. When she found out she was pregnant, she ran away. For that she was thrown in jail. (Crimes are different here than they are back home you see.) The girl's little sister had been given to the man as a penance from the family.

What future does this sweet child have now? Locked away in a jail with nothing but a doll crib for her baby?

I'm blessed to have a job that allows me to help people. But even I know we can only do so much. How it hurts to think of what we can't do here.

A few weeks ago I had another trip into the city. I'd say it was one of my hardest days yet. But no day is the hardest because they are all hard.

That day I'd brought food with me for the children, to hand out as I walked. There were just so many children. I ran out early in the trip. For the rest of my journey I found myself empty-handed.

Further into the city I came across a family begging for help. Their little girl ran alongside me, talking in Pashtu, and holding out her hands. I smiled and in English told her I had nothing.

I told her I wished I could understand her. I don't think she understood me.

The girl's mother saw us and ran over, carrying a tiny baby on her hip. The baby looked so small — unhealthy small. It was covered in filth and so scorched from the sun. The mother hurried after me into the street, tugging at my sleeve. She was begging for help. I hated myself for not having anything to give her.

Once I arrived at the next base I packed up a box of food to bring to the family outside. I was so hopeful!

Unfortunately, by the time I got back they were gone. I can't stop thinking about them. Back home I would have been repulsed if some woman ran and grabbed me, shouting in a foreign language. But over here, I see things in new ways.

Today I just thought, "What if it was me?" I know if my children were starving I would do anything for them. Even in desperation chase a stranger through the streets.

It's amazing how my perspective has changed in such a short time here. In America I lived a life of ignorance, not seeing the needs of my own people. But here I am inundated by the poverty and desperation around me.

I hope this is something I can take with me when I come back, a way to see the needs of people who need my help. And a way to remember that even one person can make a difference.